Old Filth - Jane Gardam [60]
“I hope mine will be private. On the Ganges on a pyre.”
“I never read obituaries. No idea Betty was getting one.”
“Did nobody turn up at the funeral, Teddy?”
“No idea.”
“Teddy—?”
“Didn’t look around. Eyes front. Usual hymns. Discipline and all that.”
“Of course,” said Claire. (Oh, where was the boy, the blazing young friend in Wales?) “Of course. You were with the Glorious Gloucesters in the War.”
He gave her a look.
“I believe there was a pack of church ladies,” he said. “From the flower committee. Coffee rota. One of them walked me home and made herself rather too friendly. I’m told you have to watch this.”
“Was there a wake?”
“Bun-fight in the church hall.”
“Nobody from Chambers?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. My Clerk. Retired now. Very civil of him.”
“Well, you made him a packet.”
Again the look.
“And there were a few from the Inn. Hardly knew them. Can’t think why they came, trains being what they are.”
“But, Teddy, they may have wanted to come. They were fond of Betty. Maybe it helped them to wear a dark suit, make an effort on your behalf. Respecting you. Helping you.”
“Helping me?” He looked at his glass. “Nonsense, Claire. Whenever did I need help?” He seemed outraged. “We all come to an end.”
“Teddy, you must grieve for her. You will soon. It hasn’t hit you yet, but listen, there may be a very bad time coming. You were married nearly half a century and you never—I’d guess strayed?”
“Strayed?”
“You were never unfaithful to Betty with another woman?”
“Good God, no.”
Yet his eyes were dazzling, hungry eyes. Claire thought how Betty had underestimated him. And fooled him.
“Then, Teddy, you are in trouble. You are in shock.” (“She should have seen you on the motorway,” said Betty to Filth on her mobile.) “Why else would you have come charging round the country after Babs and me?”
“How did you know about Babs?”
“She rang.”
“Was she drunk? She was drunk yesterday. On tea from Fortnum’s, or worse. Very squalid.”
“You can be a cruel man, Teddy. More whiskey? Hello, who’s this?”
Outside in the road a motor-bike came clattering up to the gate and a young man in a medieval black helmet with belligerent lip got off and stood looking at the Merc.
“Oh, Lord, it’s the Vicar. I’ll get rid of him. Unless of course . . .”
“No thanks,” said Filth as the Vicar removed his disguise and emerged as the cherub of the sedan chair. “I’ll find your spare bedroom and lie down,” and he seized his bag from the hall and made off.
“Ah, I see you are not ready for each other at the moment,” called Claire.
The young man in the road, having walked round the car and examined the number plate, climbed back on his bike and roared away.
“He saw I had a visitor,” said Claire, and went to the kitchen to look in the freezer. Fish fingers. Oven chips, but she kept these for Oliver so she and Teddy mustn’t eat them all. A square of mild cheddar in plastic. Flora margarine and frozen peas. Splendid. Though Teddy never noticed what he ate.
“Or anything else,” she said, sadly, and mistakenly.
WANDSWORTH
Parents’ weekend, thought Claire’s younger son, Oliver, in Wandsworth on Friday, flinging a few crumpled things into a sports bag. Wonder if I need petrol. Trip to the bank machine. No need for condoms, anyway, all by myself. Might step out and buy some real flowers for Ma, not petrol-station ones. Saturday morning.
He was happy to be going to see his mother and trying not to face the fact that he was happier because he was going alone. Vanessa, at present snarling and snapping incisively into the sitting-room phone, was off in a moment to her own parents in Bournemouth. They arranged these filial visits every other month, Oliver ringing his mother every week to check up on her diabetes, Vanessa ringing hers, who was hale and hearty, every three. When Vanessa was not about, Oliver sometimes rang Claire in between times from station platforms, airports, or the forecourt of the Wandsworth